


Everything Goes Away

by fadedhues



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Kat uses filler scenes to get her point across, M/M, Smut, this ends happy don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:16:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadedhues/pseuds/fadedhues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is an author who works at a bank to get by; Eames is Phillipa’s physical therapist. Cobb is much too busy to take her to her appointments, so Arthur has to (and this is one favor that Arthur doesn’t mind doing at all).</p><p>AKA the physical therapy AU that no one asked for with some smut and a little heartbreak (but not really).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Goes Away

**Author's Note:**

> Um, well. This took me way too long to write, and I first posted in on my drabble tumblr [here](http://drabbledreams.tumblr.com/post/31594152682/everything-goes-away). My [beta](http://sebastiangavroche.tumblr.com/) is amazing and she got me through this... lovely adventure. Any mistakes that can be found are my own. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_The young man grips the dice between his fingers, rubbing furiously at the sharp edges, resisting the urge to throw the dice onto the floor, as he grips the gun in his other hand. “Tell me the truth,” he grits out. “We’re in a dream, aren’t we?” The short woman before him shakes her head, saying, “No, no, Robert. It’s me, it’s me, you know me, I’m real.”_

_“You could be a forgery,” the man retorts. “Now,” he flicks the safety off, “tell me the truth.” He moves the gun from its aim at her head to her knees._

“He knows the answer, of course,” Arthur muttered out loud to himself as his fingers flew over the keyboard. “They—”

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted, making Arthur jump as he was jolted out of his fantasy world and thrown back into the reality of his job at the bank.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir,” Arthur apologized to the man on the other side of the counter as he minimized the Microsoft Word document on his computer screen. “How may I help you?”

It was a simple withdrawal, nothing major, and the man thanked him as he was handed the cash-filled envelope. “Not a problem, come again soon,” Arthur replied, flashing him a smile.

The bank was empty once more, as it usually was around noon on Wednesday afternoons, so Arthur pulled the Word document back up on his screen.

“Writing again?” Arthur’s coworker (and friend, try as he might to deny it), Ariadne, peered over at him from her chair, tying her brown hair back into a ponytail.

He nodded in reply. “I got some inspiration on the way here, and I wanted to write it down before my writer’s block hit again.”

Ariadne nodded as if she understood, and, he supposed, she probably did—Arthur was a frequent victim of writer’s block; a major problem, as he was trying to finish a novel and attempt to get it published.

Arthur had just begun to start typing once more when his cell phone rang. “Hello?” he answered.

“Arthur, thank god,” Dom Cobb’s sharp voice came through, sounding frazzled—Arthur could just picture Dom, rubbing his face and squinting in worry. “Listen, I need you to do me a favor.” As of late, Dom had been asking Arthur for a lot of favors, he realized, but Cobb was his best friend. He and Cobb had roomed together in college and stayed close since. He was even the godfather to Dom’s (gorgeous) kids. Speaking of—“Phillipa’s cast came off yesterday, and she needs physical therapy for her wrist and thumb, but the appointment is today and I’ve got Beijing on hold and, well, they need my design  _yesterday_.” Cobb was an architect, dedicated to and enthusiastic about his job.

Arthur found it easier to just call him a workaholic.

Arthur rubbed his forehead as he grabbed a pen and paper. “Yeah, just give me the time and the place.”

“Jesus, thanks.” Cobb exhaled sharply, telling Arthur that he had been holding his breath. “5 o’clock at the Cantrell Center. It’s near that coffee place you like on West 34th Street. I owe you one.”

Arthur bit back his reply of “More like you owe me twenty,” instead saying, “Yeah, whatever.” He paused for a second before asking quietly, “How’s Mal?”

Mallorie Cobb, Dom’s beautiful, French, eccentric wife had been acting strange after the birth of James, the couple’s second child, and a trip to a psychiatrist had ended with a diagnosis of post-partum depression.

“Better, now that she’s taking her medications. But I have to make her take it. Some days she still doesn’t believe that James is her child.” Cobb sighed. “Anyways, I have to go. Thanks for this, really.”

“I know, I know.” Arthur said his goodbye and hung up.

“What does Cobb need now?” Ariadne asked around a mouthful of lo mein, which she had evidently gotten from the fridge while Arthur was on the phone.

Arthur sighed. “I have to take Phil to her physical therapy appointment. Can you take the last leg of my shift?” he added hopefully.

She rolled her eyes as she chewed. Once the food was swallowed, she said, “Sure, it’s not like I have a date or anything.”

“Do you?”

Ariadne snorted. “Nope.”

Arthur cracked a grin at that. Okay, so maybe he could openly admit to being friends with the girl. Maybe.

—

“Arthur,” Mal purred from the doorway, looking sleek in a long black gown. “So lovely to see you. Thanks for doing this.” She reached up to kiss his cheek. “Come for dinner sometime this weekend, yes?” Without waiting for an answer, she smiled and left to go to the nearby restaurant where she sang while rich people ate expensive food. It was terribly posh, really, and Mal was the perfect fit for it.

“Uncle Arthur!” Arthur bent down to hug five year old Phillipa, who had Mal’s eyes and Dom’s hair and a certain calm air about her that neither parent really had. He shut the front door behind her and they walked to his car. Ariadne sometimes questioned the use of a car in Manhattan, where one could use multiple forms of public transportation, but using those reminded Arthur of being a poor college kid.

When they made it to the Cantrell Center, Arthur couldn’t help but stare. It shared a building with the hospital, but the side that the Cantrell Center was on looked newer, as if someone had just recently decided to tack a physical therapy center to the side of a hospital.

“Phillipa Cobb,” Arthur told the receptionist inside, and she smiled and directed the two of them to some seats. He watched Phillipa play with the toys until a male voice asked, “Phillipa?” Arthur rose to his feet and took Phillipa by the hand—her good hand—and followed the man out of the waiting room and into another room, large with beds and weights and other things they use for physical therapy.

Arthur waited until the man turned around to get a good look at him—although his backside had provided a very nice view, too.

“Hello, Mr. Cobb,” the man said in a British accent. He stuck a hand out and Arthur shook it, saying, “Oh, no, I’m not Dom. I’m her godfather. Dom’s stuck at work so he asked me to bring Phil for her appointment. I hope that’s not a problem. I can pay, though, but oh, I don’t know what her insurance is, now that I think about it.” Arthur was acutely aware that he was babbling, but god, that  _face_. The face that was peering at him curiously was handsome by all accounts. The man had light brown hair with some facial hair that most likely was the product of a failure to shave for about three days. He had blue eyes and sort-of crooked teeth that Arthur found endearing. And his  _lips_ , god, they were  _sin_. “Arthur,” he added hastily, trying to banish the mental image of those lips against his, those lips wrapped around his cock.  _There is a child here, there is a child here_ , he chanted mentally. “My name’s Arthur.”

“I’m Dr. Eames,” he said, smiling again. “Right, then. Arthur, you can just take a seat right there,” he gestured to a chair off to the side, “and Phillipa and I will play a game.”

Phillipa grinned at the man, obviously having found him to her liking.

Arthur couldn’t really blame her.

For the next hour, Arthur watched Eames. He had Phillipa do different things with her hand, holding or squeezing or spinning, turning them into games to keep the child entertained.

Arthur was entranced, to say the least. It occurred to him that he was in trouble, but then Eames started talking to Arthur and the thought was gone in a flash.

—

“Okay,” Arthur said into the phone, “what if… what if instead of taking ideas, they… they plant one?”

“Planting ideas?” Yusuf asked. “What could be achieved with that?” Yusuf had been an old friend of Arthur’s back in their high school days; now he was an editor for the publishing company Saito&Saito, but more importantly, he was  _Arthur’s_  editor (nothing official, just a friendly favor).

“I dunno.” Arthur waved his free hand around. “Maybe… maybe to break up a family or a couple or—” his eyes widened with his idea, and he continued, “—or an empire. A business empire.”

Yusuf went quiet for a second, and all Arthur could hear was the faint crackling sound of his crappy phone connection before— “Arthur. Whoever you’re regularly having sex with, please thank them for me, because that is the best idea you’ve had in a while.”

“I’m not having sex with anyone,” Arthur protested as he poured himself a cup of coffee.  _Yet_.

“Then please do, because if this is just in infatuation, I think that post-coital, your book could be Saito&Saito material.”

Arthur grinned at the compliment as Yusuf continued, “Seriously, this will be good. But I’ve got to run, text me if you get laid.”

“Don’t expect anything, then.”

Yusuf hung up in response.

—

Arthur was back at the Cantrell Center the following week, as Dom had yet another deadline to meet and Mal had yet another show to fill.

Not that Arthur minded, of course. Not at all, when he got a lovely view of Eames, who was really wonderful with kids. It affected Arthur way more than it probably should have.

“Dr. Eames?” Phillipa reached up and tugged on Eames’ sleeve.

“Yes, doll?” he murmured to her.

She lowered her voice and said quietly, “I gotta pee.”

The man chuckled ( _god_ , his voice was so  _delectable_ , it was like everything he did affected Arthur in the worst way possible, considering that he was always around a  _child_  when it happened) and replied, “That’s fine. Down the hall and to the left, okay?”

She nodded, long blonde hair swishing to and fro, and set off in the direction Eames had pointed her.

“So, Arthur,” Eames started, and Arthur felt his worry about an awkward silence dissipating, “I’m actually a bit curious as to how you know Cobb. He’s… not the sort I imagine you being friends with.”

“You’ve only known us each for an hour,” Arthur pointed out, smiling.

Eames grinned. “While that  _is_  true… it’s just, he’s so pinched and squinty and he always seems to be elsewhere. You seem much more grounded and controlled.”

Arthur shrugged. “I suppose we just balance each other out. We were college roommates and just stayed friends afterwards.”

Eames nodded as he cleaned off some nearby weights that an elderly man had been using earlier. “I see. Arthur, I wanted to ask you—” he cut himself off as Phillipa came back, a grin on her face.

“Okay, I’m good,” she announced, and Eames cracked a grin at her.

Arthur spent the rest of the appointment wondering what Eames was going to ask.

_I wanted to ask you if you’d like to go out sometime._

_I wanted to ask you if Phillipa has had any other injuries._

_I wanted to ask you if you have her insurance card today._

_I wanted to ask you if you’d like to go out sometime_ , he caught himself imagining again.  _Stop that,_ he reprimanded himself.  _You don’t even know if he’s gay_.

The rest of the hour dragged on agonizingly slowly, and it wasn’t until Arthur and Phillipa were just leaving that Eames blurted out, “Say, Arthur, would you fancy getting dinner with me sometime?”

Arthur stared at him, and Eames wrinkled his nose, looking chagrined. “Oh bollocks, I didn’t even ask if you’re gay, I could have completely misread you, oh my—”

“Eames,” Arthur cut him off, “I’d love to.”

The other man beamed. “Really, darling?”

Arthur only nodded in response, but he was smiling so hard he thought his cheeks might actually form new wrinkles.

“Fantastic. I’ll, uh, get your number from reception. Ta, darling,” Eames said, and Arthur swung the door shut behind him, feeling like he could burst with excitement.

He was really aware that he was maybe too excited, but the last time he had gone out with a man as good-looking as Eames was in a dream he’d had the other night.

Although, he thought as he flashed back to the rather inappropriate dream starring Eames and himself, they actually didn’t do much going out in his dream.

 _You’re with a child right now, you’re with a child_ , he chanted to himself.

—

Later, while Arthur was doing the dishes, his phone buzzed. He flipped it open to find a text message from an unfamiliar number.  _Arthur_ , it read _, wat do u think abt Chinese tmrw?_

Arthur laughed, figuring out rather quickly who the message was from.  _I’d love to. Also, Eames, aren’t you a professional? What’s with the teenage texting?_

_Luv, I can’t b like that all day long. I need a break sumtimes._

_Tomorrow, six o’clock, Zen_ , was all Arthur texted back, and the reply was instantaneous:

_C u then, darling._

Arthur could barely get through work the next day, it had to be said. The whole day, he was totally focused on Eames—and Arthur could only thank his lucky stars that Ariadne was off that day. The day moved at the pace of a snail, and six o’clock—finally—found Arthur strolling into the restaurant. Eames was sitting on a bench near the doors. He stood up, beaming. “Darling!” he greeted, and Arthur responded to his large smile in kind before sitting in the chair opposite of the other man.

“I’m just tired of the jerks, you know?” Arthur found himself saying a while later, gesturing around with a chopstick stabbed through a piece of shrimp.

Eames grinned. “Maybe you haven’t been looking in the right places.”

Arthur took another sip of his drink— _Wow, that is_ good _, how many of these have I had?_  he thought to himself. “That,” he finally said, “is extremely corny.”

Eames shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, if it’s true.”

Arthur pursed his lips. “True, true.” He set his food down. “I’m sorry, by the way, about…” he waved his hand around. “All of this. I’m usually very conscientious with my alcohol intake, but I’m afraid that my nerves got the best of me.” He laughed and wiped his hands on his napkins. “Actually, I probably wouldn’t even be telling you that. But that’s the thing, you know, it’s… it’s you.”

Eames raised his eyebrows. “Yes, pet, it is—what’s your point?”

“You know, you’re just so attractive and smart and, and,” Arthur said almost belligerently , like he was challenging Eames to disagree with him, “you have nice lips and you’re nice and… oh, did I say attractive yet?” Oh god, what was  _wrong_  with him? Arthur blamed it on the alcohol, it’s  _always_  the alcohol.

“I believe you did,” Eames confirmed, eyes crinkling with mirth.

He was gorgeous with his blue button down shirt and lips curved upwards in a grin and three-day stubble and—“You wanna come home?” The words tumbled out of Arthur’s mouth before he could stop them, and he wished he could eat them back up, but there it was, out in the open.

Eames looked taken aback before answering, “I’d go anywhere with you,” and he sounded honest, and maybe it was just that Arthur was tipsy, but Eames sounded  _so_   _sincere_  that it made Arthur’s heart throb and his blood sing.

Although, it occurred to Arthur, the thing that really got Arthur’s blood singing was Eames’ lips on his, his lips on his neck, on his collarbone, his shoulder. “Hey,” he panted, “let’s at least get into the bedroom.”

Eames had been suckling marks into Arthur’s chest and looked up at him, pupils blown, lips attached to his skin—Arthur felt something run through his body, a frisson, a contact high from Eames and Eames’ lips and skin.

“Mmm,” Eames hummed into Arthur’s mouth, letting Arthur steer them blindly backwards towards the bedroom. Arthur felt Eames’ large hands on his waist, cradling him. His shirt was suddenly off, and his fingers were unbuttoning Eames’ shirt with ease. He pushed the shirt off of Eames’ shoulders, large hands still roaming over his body, tickling and grabbing and skimming here and there, lower and lower.

Arthur unbuttoned Eames’ pants and pulled them down, revealing the black boxer-briefs underneath—and suddenly it was like Arthur was a seventeen year old boy, losing his virginity to the college kid down the street.

But Arthur wasn’t a kid anymore, he knew what he was doing, so he sank down to the floor and pulled the briefs down. Eames stepped out of them and gasped as Arthur sucked him in. He started at the head, licking and slurping his way up and down before taking him all in once more. Eames moaned and Arthur hummed in content. He relaxed his throat and let Eames slide in even deeper, breathing out slowly through his nostrils. Eames let out a choked noise, instinctively rocking his hips forward, and he muttered, “Sorry, sorry, oh god, Arthur.”

Arthur quirked an eyebrow at him, and Eames chuckled. “I know, I know, this isn’t your first time, just keep—”

Arthur didn’t need any more encouragement, swallowing harshly around Eames’ cock until Eames came with a cry, fingers pulling at Arthur’s hair— _when did they get there_?

Eames pulled Arthur to his feet, pushing their lips together. He pulled Arthur’s pants and boxers down and pushed him backwards onto the bed. “Darling, please, please tell me you’ve got lube and condoms,” Eames murmured into his mouth.

Arthur pushed the other man back and glared. “What do you take me for?” he huffed.

Eames grinned. “Better safe than sorry,” he countered as Arthur reached over to open the bottom drawer of his nightstand, pulling out a condom and a bottle of lube.

Cold, slick fingertips traced the outer ring of Arthur’s hole, and Eames draped himself over Arthur as he inserted his finger in slowly, Arthur gasping the whole way through. One finger became two, two became three, stretching and scissoring him wide open, bumping against his prostate and making him jerk in surprise each time (it had been a long while since he’d had sex, he had to admit,  _far_  too long).

Arthur was hard, achingly so; had probably been since they had crossed the threshold of his apartment. “Come on, come on,” he groaned, and suddenly Eames’ cock was positioned there, hard once more. Both men gasped against each other’s skin as Eames slid in, Arthur’s body not giving much resistance.

“Mm, kitten,” Eames groaned above him, and everything, from Eames’ kiss-swollen lips to his wide eyes to the hickeys on his neck to the guttural drawl of his voice, sent shivers down Arthur’s spine, sending him screwing back down onto Eames’ dick.

Eames pulled Arthur’s shoulders up above and turned a little, thrusting back in and hitting—“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Arthur moaned, and a tiny voice in the back of his head piped up about the neighbors, but hell, Arthur had been the best (and most considerate, really) of all the noisy tenants on his floor, so he relished in the fact that everyone knew that it was  _him_  getting pounded into the bed by the hottest thing to have waltzed into the building.

A few more thrusts, Eames’ rubbing and bumping Arthur’s prostate, and Arthur was coming against Eames, hard, white spots at the edge of his vision. His body tightened as he came, and the sensation sent Eames tumbling over the edge after him.

Eames fell still on him, groaning out, “ _Arthur_ ,” and if Arthur hadn’t just come, he might have right then, just from that sound. The two lay there, breathing harshly, hearts hammering hard against each other’s chest. Eames pulled out of Arthur and disposed of the condom while Arthur dug under his bed covers. Eames crawled into the bed behind him, pulling him in, and Arthur was out like a light.

—

_“Darling, maybe a little less talking and a little more running, yeah?” the Brit asks, taking a sharp corner and almost careening into a potted plant._

_The other man grunts out, “Don’t call me that.”_

_Charles, of course, ignores this. “They’re gaining,” he says as they ran down the stairs, hearing steps of people giving chase. “We’ll need a distraction.”_

_“The projections already know something’s up,” Robert replies tersely. “They’ll rip you to pieces.”_

_“All the more time for you to perform the extraction,” Charles retorts, opening the door to the thirteenth floor and shoving Robert inside. He continues down the stairs._

I love you,  _Robert thinks, then shakes his head and runs to find all of the mark’s deepest secrets._

—

A random Sunday night a few months later found the two in Arthur’s apartment, lounging on his couch and dividing their time between watching X-Men and kissing (it probably wouldn’t be too hard to guess which Arthur preferred doing, but here’s a hint: Arthur loved Eames’ lips).

“Eames,” Arthur mumbled against the other man’s lips, “Eames, I just remembered.” He pulled away and rubbed his thumb over Eames’ bottom lip. “My sister’s getting married in two weeks, and I was just wondering if you’d like to go with me. You know. As my boyfriend. Meet the family. All that.” He waved his hand around. “I had planned of a much more eloquent way to approach you about it, but I guess that’s out the window.” He grinned sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck.

A slow, wide grin spread across Eames’ face. “You mean that, darling?” he breathed out. He leaned forward to press his lips against Arthur’s, before pulling back, a frown on his face. “Wait, didn’t you say that your parents—”

“Like to pretend that I’m straight and will marry someone like Ariadne, yes,” Arthur finished for him. “But Sarah insisted I bring my ‘mysterious new boyfriend,’ and I agreed.”

“I’ll be there, pet,” Eames promised, and leaned in for another kiss. Or four.

—

Sarah’s wedding went without a hitch (or with a hitch, pun intended), although Arthur had spent the better part of the service craning his neck around, trying to find Eames.

“Arthur,” Sarah cried out, throwing her arms around his neck, “where’s your boyfriend?”

“I, uh,” he said awkwardly, hugging her back. “I don’t know, actually. I’m sure he’ll be at the reception,” he continued in a rush at the look on her face.

“If you say so,” she said hesitantly. Something must have shown on Arthur’s face, for when he turned to greet an uncle, one of Sarah’s hands shot out, locking her fingers around his wrist. “Hey,” she said softly. “I’m sure he’ll be here. He doesn’t sound like a douchebag.”

Eames showed up, twenty minutes later, out of breath and looking harried. “Arthur, Arthur, darling, I—”

“Where the  _fuck_  have you  _been_?” Arthur hissed, grabbing him by the elbow and dragging them out of earshot. “This was important to me, you know, even if I didn’t make it seem like that. My family doesn’t even want me to be gay, and you’re not making me look any better by not being a good boyfriend. I had an aunt tell me that she knows a girl who would treat me _right_ —”

“I’m sorry, love, I really am.” Eames had the grace to look ashamed. “I was just caught up in something, I forgot.”

“Caught up in what?” Arthur barked, aware of Sarah’s stare burning into his back. “What could have possibly distracted you so much that you forgot about this?”

Eames sighed, looking like a kicked puppy. “I… I was packing.”

Arthur blinked in confusion. “Packing? Are you going on vacation?”

“No, darling, I…” Eames exhaled, rubbing his hands over his scruffy cheeks. “I’ve meant to tell you, but the time wasn’t right, and you’ve been so good for me, things were going so well…”

Arthur felt his mouth twist into a frown. “Are you—are you  _moving_?”

Eames nodded sadly. “It’s my job, pet, I can’t do anything about it, but they’re relocating me to Texas.”

“Texas is really far away from New York,” was all Arthur could think to say.

“I know.”

“And you couldn’t have told me this before?”

Eames’ mouth tightened in reply.

“So what now?” Arthur finally asked.

“I don’t know, kitten, I don’t know.”

Arthur straightened up. “Don’t call me that.”

Eames looked flabbergasted. “What? Kitten?”

“Don’t call me that. We’re… we’re done.” Arthur rubbed at his eyes, which were burning with tears. “I’m so sick of this  _shit_ , Eames. I thought you would be different than all the others were, everything was so perfect. But you—you’re just the same! You’re a lying, selfish bastard,” he spat. “I wasted all that time on you.” He took five deep breaths, silently counting to ten. Arthur looked back up at Eames. “I think,” he said calmly (Arthur had always been more of the  _silent_  kind of deadly), “I think you should leave.”

Eames smiled grimly. “You know what,  _Arthur_?” he spat out. “Maybe you’re right.”

—

_Charles grabs Robert’s wrist. “Love,” he breathes out, “you need to go. Now.”_

_Robert shakes his head, mouth set in a line. “Absolutely not. You’re coming with me. We’re going to make it out of here, I promise.”_

_Charles grins and leans his head back as Robert’s slim hands press hard against the bullet wound. “Ah, darling, I thought you were a realist. We’ve got quite a while until the kick, and neither of us will last until then if the projections get us. Go, pet, go hide. Now.”_

_“No,” Robert says sharply, taking one hand off of Charles’ wound to try to help him up._

_“Robert, dear, I think we both know that you won’t be able to carry me out of here, much as we’d both like that.” Charles tries to put a playful edge to it and fails._

_“No,” he protests, panicking, “not if you forge into a small girl or something.”_

_Charles gives him a pitying look as he starts wheezing. “Blood in my lungs. Won’t be able to keep it up. It’d only kill me faster.” He covers Rob’s hand, the one on his chest trying to control the blood loss, and locks eyes with him. “You need to leave me here.”_

_“But—limbo—we’re too far down, Charles, you’ll be lost down there—” Robert feels tears in his eyes; feels his chest ache._

_Charles gives the slim man a smile. “I trust that you’ll come back one day, darling.” He leans back, staring up at the ceiling. “You’ll see me all old and wise, yeah? I’ll be the most handsome old man you’ve ever seen.” He reaches up and strokes Robert’s cheek. “Darling,” he says softly, “I know you hate sentimentality, but I guess death will do that to a bloke.” He laughs softly, his breathing off. “I trust I’ll be seeing you.”_

_“Dammit, Charles,” Rob snarls, wiping furiously at his eyes. “Don’t do this to me, don’t you dare, don’t leave me now.”_

_“Darling,” the other man breathes, just that, and pushes Rob toward the door feebly. “Go. Go!” he commands. Rob ducks down to press a soft kiss to Charles’ lips and then stands up, legs shaking, walking out of the door, leaving the man he loves to die._

_He rides the kick up from the fort to the office, and from the office to the sinking ship, and from the ship to the train. He checks his totem, rolls it once, twice, three times—reality. Three, three, three. He rubs his forehead, watches the architect wake up, watches the extractor and the chemist stir to wakefulness—watches Charles breathe evenly, in and out in a deep sleep. The mark would wake and find Charles sleeping next to him—who would realize something is wrong? Who would be the one to call an ambulance, a doctor, anything? Robert squeezes his eyes shut against the image of a comatose Charles in a bright hospital room. Who would visit him? Who would tell his family?_

_The rest of his team stares at him, questions etched on their faces. Rita settles back into her seat, sadly murmuring, “The price of inception is high, but if we can do it, we’ll be gods in the business. Stay safe.” Charles’ final words before they had gone under._

—

Arthur taps his fingers nervously against the table, watching Yusuf carefully. Yusuf leaned forward to put the laptop on the table in front of him, then leaned back into the seat and propped his legs up next to the laptop.

“You killed him,” the olive-skinned man said in disbelief, running a hand through his curly hair. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “You killed Charles.”

“Well, I mean.” Arthur tapped his foot against the floor. “He’s not dead, exactly. Just… comatose.”

Yusuf shot him a look. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“It’s Eames.”

“ _What?_ ” Arthur said again.

“I mean, I knew Eames was Charles, but he  _really_  is.” Yusuf jabbed a finger at Arthur. “You want Eames to come back, just like Charles could come back. He could. You could write a second one. Have Robert go under and find Charles in limbo.”

Yusuf’s words about a sequel temporarily tore Arthur away from the mention of Eames. “A second one?” he echoed. “Does that mean—?”

Yusuf nodded slowly, grinning. “Yes. Welcome to Saito&Saito, my friend. Now,” he picked up his coffee mug to take a sip, “what are we going to do about Eames?”

“Nothing,” Arthur said firmly. “Nothing at all.”

—

The small redhead flashed him a smile as he signed the inside cover. “Thanks. Your book was really amazing.”

Arthur smiled at her. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He closed the book and handed it to her.

She hugged the book to her chest, and her smile faded a bit. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” he replied.

“Why Charles?” She bit her lip. “I mean, you’re the author, and the ending was still fantastic, like the rest of the book, but what prompted to you make that decision?”

Arthur sighed. He loved book signings, he loved knowing that people loved his book, but sometimes they were too inquisitive. But he had remembered trying to start the story, dreaming about days like this, and he prided himself on being nice to fans. “Well.” He sighed again. “I, uh, was in a relationship. And my boyfriend… we broke up. I had based Charles off of him, and I was just so furious. And I thought that maybe killing him off would help me move on.”

“But you didn’t,” she pointed out.

“Huh?”

“Kill him off. Or move on, either. Since you didn’t kill him off.”

Some of his fans were too smart; this girl was one of them, and Arthur told her so with a grin.

“So now what?” she asked, green eyes twinkling.

“What do you mean?” Arthur asked.

“You know. Charles. Are you going to write a second novel?” She smiled hopefully at him.

He shrugged. “It all depends.”

She didn’t question him further. “Well, I hope everything works out for Robert.” She flashed him a wide smile. “And you.”

He shook her hand and thanked her. His phone chirped as the next person stepped up, and he read the text message from Ariadne informing him that if he was late for their movie night, she would skin him alive. He grinned and typed back a reply as he told the next person, “I’m really sorry about this, just a second.”

“Of course, darling,” the person drawled back, and Arthur’s head snapped up so fast he may have gotten whiplash.

“Eames?” he asked slowly, even though  _duh_ , it was obviously Eames, unless Eames had a twin or he was dreaming. Eames looked good (he always did), even with his awful paisley shirt that  _should_   _have_  clashed with his dark jeans (but they worked, somehow). “What—what are you—?”

“Well,” the man said carefully, hands in his pockets. “I came to get my book signed by the author.” 

Arthur raised his eyes brows. “Oh, is that all?” he asked coolly, heart pounding in his ears.

Eames stared at him; his lips parted and his tongue snuck out to swipe at his lower lip. Arthur found himself to be incredibly love-struck and horny at the same time. “Oh, pet,” he replied softly, “it’s never just ‘all’ with you.”

Arthur had no response prepared for what Eames was saying. He sat there, closing and opening his mouth repeatedly until Eames sighed. “Anywho, love, I’m back here. Permanently. And I was wondering… I was wondering if we could start over, maybe?” He looked pained, lips pinched in a frown.

Arthur grabbed the other man’s shirt, silently praying that he would maybe rip it, and pulling him forward onto his lips. “No, no starting over,” Arthur muttered into his lips. “I pined over you for far too long.”

Eames pulled away, looking delighted. “ _Pined_ , darling?”

—

 _In the Undertow  is the new sequel to the best-selling novel, _Inception _. Charles is stuck in limbo and Robert goes to get his love back. He’s not quite equipped to handle limbo and what it stores, but Charles is, and has always been, worth it._  


End file.
